Unraveling the pieces of my life

Published: Sunday, December 30, 2012 at 4:30 a.m.

Last Modified: Friday, December 28, 2012 at 12:47 p.m.

I remember the delight in waking up as a child to the joy of Christmas.

We usually followed the same routine — that is, until my brother and sister, just beyond me in years, thought it silly to get up early and explore in the dark for Christmas treasures.

I would return to my brother, still in bed, and report what I had seen — whetting his appetite to join me and see for himself.

Everything is a kind of ceremony, even living. When I was a youngster, it seemed my family almost always had fried chicken on Sunday. Each Easter I got a pair of shoes. I put on my best clothes for church.

I always slept on the same side of the bed. Once, I woke up facing the wall and thought I was blind.

Much has changed about the neighborhood of my childhood. But the old sycamore tree is still there on 3rd Avenue West. It is enormous. Someone recently suggested we should hold a contest to determine the oldest tree in Henderson County. How we would go about this, I do not know. Certainly the measured circumference of the trunk would be one determining factor. The tree is part of what was once the backyard to the home of the Carpenter family — Billy, Diane, Mary Jean and Kitty Ann.

William Carpenter, the father, was a lawyer and was married to Mary Belle Maxwell Carpenter. He would always whistle when he saw my sister Pat walk by. I think it was his way of boosting her ego at a time when, as an awkward adolescent, she saw only defects. Pat experimented with hair styles and "looks." She would gaze admiringly at movie stars such as Jennifer Jones and Vivien Leigh.

"My nose is too big, and I don't have a chin," she would moan.

Pat rehearsed for the Christmas carols concert at the Methodist church by walking through the house with a lighted candle. She was in the eighth grade. I remember another Christmas when she got an evening dress that months later she would wear to the junior-senior prom. She would hold it in front of her and assume dramatic poses in front of the mirror. I watched.

There were times when she would barricade herself in her bedroom with her friends Dorothy Canipe, Barbara Aiken, Jean Morgan and Nancy Levi. What they talked about I often wondered; but I remember, when it got really "good," Pat would call out to my mother — "Mama, call Tommy!"

Mama would explain that it was "girl talk" and make attempts to distract me: "Did you finish that book you were reading?"

For a while my sister took voice lessons from Elizabeth Mauney. I can still hear her singing — "When at night, I go to sleep … fourteen angels watch do keep."

I remember once a young man telephoned from Germany. I answered the phone. Thinking he was talking to my sister, he began to chat — "What have you been doing?"

My response: "Playing in the creek."

"Well that must have been fun … ." came his puzzled response.

My brother Rick took special pride in details — the way the shrubbery looked, the edging along the sidewalk. He manicured the lawn. I mowed it.

My brother had definite procedures to follow when he washed and waxed the car or polished his shoes. He positioned his socks in the drawer in a certain way and could easily tell if someone had disturbed the order. I remember how he would set the exact time on his watch.

I am often overwhelmed by childhood memories: hot summer nights, windows open to the sounds of summer, childhood games — "Coming, ready or not!"

Sometimes I try to get back to the beginning, the source — where it all began.

It's like rewinding a movie: I am playing with Jane and Sylvia Brown beneath the street light. "Star light, star bright, Won't you grant my wish this night?" A dog barks at some movement in the darkness. It's probably Jef, the Brauers' Doberman pinscher.

We each travel a trail of personal experience, and it is that personal journey that becomes our movie.

<p>I remember the delight in waking up as a child to the joy of Christmas. </p><p>We usually followed the same routine — that is, until my brother and sister, just beyond me in years, thought it silly to get up early and explore in the dark for Christmas treasures. </p><p>I would return to my brother, still in bed, and report what I had seen — whetting his appetite to join me and see for himself. </p><p>Everything is a kind of ceremony, even living. When I was a youngster, it seemed my family almost always had fried chicken on Sunday. Each Easter I got a pair of shoes. I put on my best clothes for church. </p><p>I always slept on the same side of the bed. Once, I woke up facing the wall and thought I was blind. </p><p>Much has changed about the neighborhood of my childhood. But the old sycamore tree is still there on 3rd Avenue West. It is enormous. Someone recently suggested we should hold a contest to determine the oldest tree in Henderson County. How we would go about this, I do not know. Certainly the measured circumference of the trunk would be one determining factor. The tree is part of what was once the backyard to the home of the Carpenter family — Billy, Diane, Mary Jean and Kitty Ann. </p><p>William Carpenter, the father, was a lawyer and was married to Mary Belle Maxwell Carpenter. He would always whistle when he saw my sister Pat walk by. I think it was his way of boosting her ego at a time when, as an awkward adolescent, she saw only defects. Pat experimented with hair styles and "looks." She would gaze admiringly at movie stars such as Jennifer Jones and Vivien Leigh. </p><p>"My nose is too big, and I don't have a chin," she would moan. </p><p>Pat rehearsed for the Christmas carols concert at the Methodist church by walking through the house with a lighted candle. She was in the eighth grade. I remember another Christmas when she got an evening dress that months later she would wear to the junior-senior prom. She would hold it in front of her and assume dramatic poses in front of the mirror. I watched.</p><p>There were times when she would barricade herself in her bedroom with her friends Dorothy Canipe, Barbara Aiken, Jean Morgan and Nancy Levi. What they talked about I often wondered; but I remember, when it got really "good," Pat would call out to my mother — "Mama, call Tommy!" </p><p>Mama would explain that it was "girl talk" and make attempts to distract me: "Did you finish that book you were reading?"</p><p>For a while my sister took voice lessons from Elizabeth Mauney. I can still hear her singing — "When at night, I go to sleep … fourteen angels watch do keep." </p><p>I remember once a young man telephoned from Germany. I answered the phone. Thinking he was talking to my sister, he began to chat — "What have you been doing?"</p><p>My response: "Playing in the creek." </p><p>"Well that must have been fun … ." came his puzzled response.</p><p>My brother Rick took special pride in details — the way the shrubbery looked, the edging along the sidewalk. He manicured the lawn. I mowed it.</p><p>My brother had definite procedures to follow when he washed and waxed the car or polished his shoes. He positioned his socks in the drawer in a certain way and could easily tell if someone had disturbed the order. I remember how he would set the exact time on his watch. </p><p>I am often overwhelmed by childhood memories: hot summer nights, windows open to the sounds of summer, childhood games — "Coming, ready or not!" </p><p>Sometimes I try to get back to the beginning, the source — where it all began. </p><p>It's like rewinding a movie: I am playing with Jane and Sylvia Brown beneath the street light. "Star light, star bright, Won't you grant my wish this night?" A dog barks at some movement in the darkness. It's probably Jef, the Brauers' Doberman pinscher. </p><p>We each travel a trail of personal experience, and it is that personal journey that becomes our movie.</p>